The kids would be home shortly from school, then Phedra from work. This would be the last quiet moment until bedtime. Lettie took a deep breath and said, “I heard them talkin’, Momma, and they’re gonna let me go. Probably this week, not long after the funeral.”

Cypress shook her large round head and looked ready to cry. “But why?”

“No need for a housekeeper, I guess. They’ll sell the house because neither of them wants it.”

“Heavens.”

“They can’t wait to get their hands on his money. They never had time to come see him, but now they’re circlin’ like buzzards.”

“White people. Do it ever’ time.”

“They think he paid me too much, so they’re in a hurry to cut me off.”

“How much he pay you?”

“Now Momma.” Lettie had never told anyone in her family that Mr. Hubbard was paying $5 an hour, and in cash. Such a wage was indeed on the high end for domestic help in rural Mississippi, and Lettie knew better than to cause trouble. Her family might want a little extra. Her friends might talk. “Keep secrets, Lettie,” Mr. Hubbard had told her. “Never talk about your money.” Simeon, sorry as he was, would lose all motivation to bring home anything. His earnings were as erratic as his presence, and he needed no prompting to earn even less.

Lettie said, “I heard them refer to me as a servant.”

“A servant? Ain’t heard that in a long time.”

“They’re not nice people, Momma. I doubt if Mr. Hubbard was a good father, but his kids are sorry.”

“And now they get all his money.”

“I suppose. They’re sure countin’ on it.”

“How much he got?”

Lettie shook her head and took a sip of cold coffee. “I have no idea. Not sure anybody does.”

6

The parking lot of the Irish Road Christian Church was half-full when Ozzie’s relatively unmarked car turned in to it at five minutes before four on Tuesday afternoon. There were no words or numbers painted boldly on the car—Ozzie preferred a lower profile—but one glance and you knew it was the high sheriff. A collection of antennas; a small round blue light on the dash, partially hidden; a big brown Ford with four doors and black wheels, same as virtually every other high sheriff in the state.

He parked it next to the red Saab, which was parked away from the other cars. Ozzie got out as Jake was getting out and together they crossed the parking lot. “Anything new?” Jake asked.

“Nothing,” Ozzie said. He was wearing a dark suit with black cowboy boots. Jake, the same, minus the boots. “You?”

“Nothing. I guess the shit’ll hit the fan tomorrow.”

Ozzie laughed and said, “I can’t wait.”

The church, originally, was a redbrick chapel with a squatty steeple above a set of double front doors. Over time, though, the congregation had added the obligatory metal buildings—one beside the chapel that dwarfed it, and one behind it where the youth played basketball. On a small knoll nearby there was a cemetery under shady trees, a quiet and pretty place to be buried.

A few smokers were getting their last-minute drags, country men in old suits reluctantly worn. They were quick to speak to the sheriff. They nodded politely to Jake. Inside, there was a respectable crowd scattered throughout the dark-stained oak pews. The lights were low. An organist softly played a mournful dirge, priming the crowd for the sorrow to come. Seth’s closed casket was draped in flowers and situated below the pulpit. His pallbearers sat grim-faced and shoulder to shoulder off to the left near the piano.

Jake and Ozzie sat alone on a back row and began looking around. Grouped together not far away were some black folks, five in total.

Ozzie nodded at them and whispered, “Green dress, that’s Lettie Lang.”

Jake nodded and whispered back, “Who are the others?”

Ozzie shook his head. “Can’t tell from here.”

Jake stared at the back of Lettie’s head and tried to imagine the adventures they were about to share. He had yet to meet this woman, had never heard her name until the day before, but they were about to become well acquainted.

Lettie sat unknowing, her hands folded in her lap. That morning she had worked for three hours before being asked by Herschel to leave. On her way out, he informed her that her employment would be terminated as of 3:00 p.m. Wednesday, the following day. At that point, the house would be locked up and deserted until further orders from the court. Lettie had $400 in her checking account, one she kept away from Simeon, and she had $300 in a pickle jar hidden in the pantry. Beyond that, she was broke and had slim prospects for meaningful work. She had not spoken to her husband in almost three weeks. Occasionally, he would return home with a paycheck or some cash; usually, though, he was just drunk and needed to sleep it off.

Soon to be unemployed, with bills and people to feed, Lettie could have sat there listening to the organ and fretted over her future, but she did not. Mr. Hubbard had promised her more than once that when he died, and he knew his death was imminent, he would leave a little something for her. How little, or how much? Lettie could only dream. Four rows behind her, Jake thought to himself, If she only knew. She had no idea he was there, or why. She would later claim she recognized his name because of the Hailey trial, but she had never actually seen Mr. Brigance.

In the center, on the row directly in front of the casket, Ramona Dafoe sat with Ian to her left and Herschel to her right. None of their children, Seth’s grandchildren, had been able to make the drive. Their lives were just too busy; not that their parents had pushed too hard. Behind them was a row of relatives so distant they had to introduce themselves in the parking lot, and their names were quickly forgotten. Seth Hubbard’s parents had been dead for decades. His only sibling, Ancil, was long gone. There had never been much family to begin with and the years had decimated the rest.

Behind the family, and throughout the dim sanctuary, there were several dozen other mourners—employees of Seth’s, friends, fellow church members. When Pastor Don McElwain stepped to the pulpit precisely at 4:00 p.m., he and everyone else knew the service would be brief. He led them in prayer and recited a quick obituary: Seth was born May 10, 1917, in Ford County, where he died on October 2, 1988. Preceded in death by parents so-and-so; two surviving children, some grandchildren, et cetera.

Jake spotted a familiar profile several rows up and to his left, a man in a nice suit. Same age, same law class. Stillman Rush, attorney-at-law, third-generation prick from a family of same, blue bloods from the big leagues of corporate and insurance law, or as big as they could possibly be in the rural South. Rush & Westerfield, the largest firm in north Mississippi, based in Tupelo with offices coming soon to a shopping center near you. Seth Hubbard mentioned the Rush firm in his letter to Jake, and also in his handwritten will, so there was little doubt Stillman Rush and the other two well-dressed gentlemen with him had come to check on their investment. Typically, the insurance boys worked in pairs. It took two to perform even the most mundane legal tasks: two to file papers in court; two to answer a docket call; two for an uncontested hearing; two to drive here and there; and, of course, two to jack up the billing and pad the file. Big law firms vigorously worshipped inefficiencies: more hours meant more fees.

But three? For a quick funeral out in the boonies? This was impressive, and exciting. It meant money. There was no doubt in Jake’s hyperactive mind that the three had turned on their meters when they’d left their offices in Tupelo and were now sitting over there pretending to mourn at $200 an hour per man. According to Seth’s final words, a Mr. Lewis McGwyre had drafted a will in September of 1987, and Jake figured he was one of the three. Jake did not know McGwyre, but then the firm had so many lawyers. Since they prepared the will, they naturally assumed they would probate it.